Satisfaction
by Mhungo
Summary: A man of honour is predictable. He has a code. There are rules of engagement. Corvo's enemies will learn to regret stripping it away from him.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

Dunwall, like every major city of its size, has a prison. And Coldridge, like every prison of this age, has a drawbridge. And the drawbridge, like all its predecessors, has a gatehouse; the gatehouse, a gate. And the gate, guards the barracks, which in turn guards the cellblocks.

Are you with me so far? Good. Because this is where it gets interesting.

Each cellblock, like every prison of its kind, has been divided according to an occupant's offences against society. Lesser crimes, such as theft, where one might only lose a hand, are positioned closer to the gate. Crimes of more substance, murder and treason, are locked further away in the near total darkness with only the rats for company.

For many, this place will be their tomb. But even killers know that there are worse fates.

For all know, though they have not seen, what it means to be truly damned.

Their screams echo up through the bedrock as the Overseers inflict their trade.

It is a place of darkness.

A place of fear.

A place of suffering.

And it was built to house the most monstrous criminal of all. The assassin.

It is here, beaten, and chained to the confines of his cell, that _he_ rests. An innocent man, though that in of itself is nothing new, and it's certainly not what makes him interesting. And while he is a man of great passion, of both unwavering loyalty to those he loves and terrible wrath to those who would threaten them, that's still not why he has been chosen.

Can you not see it? Perhaps it is because you are looking with mortal eyes.

For if you were to truly comprehend why he is important, you would not only understand time, but also be able to perceive it.

Change it.

There are precious few of you who can and fewer still that would, for fear of upsetting the natural order.

But where is the fun in that?

He is ready. The duty that bound him has been stripped away. The love that nurtured him has been violently snuffed out. The honor that defined him has been warped beyond recovery. He is a man capable of anything.

And yet fate would decree that he is to be executed. His efforts unrecognized. His potential unrealized.

No.

I think, we can do better.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

**Very short I know. But I'm happy with how it's turned out. This is my first ****fanfiction so if I've made a mistake please do not hesitate to correct me.**


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE: UNLEASHED**

Alarms blared throughout Coldridge. From every direction word was spreading of the uprisings, checkpoints were being overrun and many weren't responding at all. The barracks was in total disarray as more and more of the city watch were geared up and flung into the chaos.

Through it all, Overseer Martin remained composed. Back straight and taking nice even breaths he walked calmly between the rows of panicked telegraph operators as they struggled desperately to stay on top of the situation.

They were losing.

It was happening too fast. Too many inmates and too few men at arms stationed within the prison to quell the violence. Until reinforcements arrived all the guards could do was buy time. Martin was a strategist; he knew the logistics better than anyone. It was unfortunate then, that the information didn't help him or his cause in the slightest.

Opening the door at the far end, Martin eased himself into his own private office. It was a modest space, as befitted any man of the faith. There was no natural light, but then, no one could expect that kind of luxury in Coldridge prison. Instead Martin relied upon a small lamp, set on his desk alongside his own private telephone.

Taking care to double bolt the door behind him, Martin sat at his desk and dialed the number that was, by this point, ingrained in his memory.

It rang once…

Twice…

Thrice…

There was a click as the line connected. Followed by a voice.

"_What must you do in order for evil to triumph?"_

"Allow good men to do nothing." Martin answered without missing a beat. "Put me through to the Admiral."

Silence. And then a second click.

"_Report."_

"He's out. The Lord Protector is out."

"_I thought we agreed that-"_

"It wasn't us!"

Silence again. Martin waited.

"_Can you intercept him?"_

Martin set aside his earpiece for a moment and listened. The pitiful murmurings from his colleagues in the other room didn't bode well. But what was more worrying was the underlying sounds of combat. The clash of sword beating against sword, the shouts and screams of men, all punctuated by the very distinct and very lethal gunshot.

They were getting closer.

Martin picked up his earpiece again.

"He's tearing the place apart. Anyone who gets in his way at this point, is as good as dead."

A sigh._ "How did he even…?"_

"Your guess is as good as mine."

There was a pause.

"_Very well. Set off the explosives."_

Martin slumped in his chair. He'd been afraid of this.

"They'll know it was me."

"_Do we have a choice?"_

"No." Teague admitted.

"_Then do it. I'll have Samuel secure the rendezvous site."_

The Loyalist Overseer just nodded.

"_And Martin." _

"Yes Admiral?"

"_Good luck."_

A final click, and the line went dead.

* * *

It had looked to be such a peaceful day for Coldridge Bay. The sun was shining, a fresh ocean breeze blew between the headlands and the only sound was that of the waves washing gently against the cliffs. If one were forced to choose one word in which to describe it, then one might say it was exceptionally…

Dull.

But don't worry. That's all about to change. In fact, if you listen closely, you might just here the ticking.

The explosion tears away all hope of this being a day like any other. The force of it jars at the Prison's very foundations, and its gate is blown asunder. Black smoke gushes out and sirens, once contained within the cold stone fortress, peal out across the Bay.

And the drawbridge, slowly, starts to rise.

But not before a figure breaks clear of the wreckage. Racing out through the smog, he is momentarily blinded by rays of sunlight. A sight he has been denied for so long. Pushing through the stinging pain he focuses instead on his avenue of escape that is, inch by inch, escaping _him_.

The man runs. So to, do his pursuers. A score and more of city watchmen rush out after him. Not even sparing them a backward glance, the man closes the distance between himself and the rising drawbridge. He's almost there!

Then suddenly, a gunshot. And although the marksman is too far away to deliver any serious injury, it's enough to make the escaped prisoner stumble onto his hands and knees. Valiantly, he drags himself along the last few feet, to the very precipice, but its already too late.

The drawbridge has finished its ascent.

He knows it's too high for him to jump now, physically or otherwise. So he looks down. And he smiles.

It is now that the first of his pursuers catches up. The watchman is well trained and knows his duty. The law is not kind to escapees and even less so to assassins. So he does not even hesitate to drive his sword down into a man… who is no longer there.

He is not confused for long. A crushing weight bears down upon his head, locking it in place, while a rusty dagger tears a jagged line across his throat. The last thing the city watchman feels is a sensation of weightlessness as his body is pushed out over the edge.

His killer watches him fall with a kind of feral satisfaction, before turning to face the rest.

The next man dies as quickly as the first. Too eager to press an advantage they never had. A bullet slams through their skull before they're even close enough to swing.

The third flinches. And an instant later is left grasping his throat, his lifeblood spilling out between his fingers.

The prisoner advances on his pursuers now. How quickly the hunters become prey.

They try to adapt. One aims their sidearm while another two attempt to engage him close quarters. Dropping low, he lashes out with a spinning kick that sweeps the legs out from one of them, and before the second combatant can strike he vanishes, only to reappear beside the gunman. A flash, and the watchman's hand is severed at the wrist. The prisoner lets him scream and dispatches the other two before they can recover.

He's in the midst of them now. His body a blur as he carves out his frustrations into the mass of teaming flesh.

Cutting.

Slicing.

Dicing.

And suddenly he's gone.

Wary eyes look up, to find him standing before them, at the precipice once more.

He stares at each of them coldly.

But no one moves against him.

His blood-drenched dagger clatters to the ground in front of him.

Still nothing.

They all look on as this killer of men backs up slowly to the edge.

Locking arms across his chest the man breathes in deeply, closes his eyes…

And falls.

Oh Corvo, I knew you wouldn't disappoint.

* * *

**AUHTOR'S NOTES**

**Thank you everyone for your reviews and your patience. This one's quite a bit longer than the last one and The Outsiders part was particularly difficult to keep consistent so if you spot anything that could do with some editing then don't hesitate to correct me.**


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO: THE ASSASSIN**

"Will you have wine? It's a Tyvian Red."

It was a vintage the High Overseer had been looking forward to all evening. A vintage that was, supposedly, unobtainable since the Isles began to blockade Dunwall's harbour. But then, there had always been perks, to being a man of Campbell's position.

His guest accepted gratefully. By the look of awe that lit up across Curnow's face, Campbell deduced, that _he_ had not had the fortune to taste of such luxuries in years.

_A pity then, that it will be his last._

The High Overseer's face betrayed nothing. He had danced this tune before. Soon he would revel in his triumph, but for now he would savor the taste. They drank.

_Delicious_.

Weeks of planning had gone into this very moment. Procuring a poison of such intrinsic make had been taxing to say the least, in both funds and patience. The orchestration might have crushed a lesser man, but not he. Tenacity ran thick in Campbell's blood and he would not be denied.

The High Overseer felt his control slipping as the familiar blood lust bubbled up deep inside his chest, making his hairs stand on end. Every one of his senses teeming for dominancy as he drank in the scene before him.

And yet…

Campbell's glass slipped between his suddenly sluggish fingers. Tumbling silently to the carpeted floor below.

_Impossible!_

* * *

Oh, but on the contrary Thaddeus. You can feel it, can you not? How each breath fails you. You have brought doom upon yourself. By your own hand no less!

* * *

It was no use. He felt his own struggles grow weaker every second. Curnow, the insufferable fool, was in hysterics. Still apparently unable to comprehend what had transpired.

How could one have born such a useless, incompetent _cretin!_

Teeth gnashing in a fit of rage Campbell threw himself at the miserable worm. The distance between them however, seemed impossibly far. Hands scrabbling at nothing the sudden lurch made the room spin. What little wind he had left was forcefully expunged as his sudden collapse laid the High Overseer flat on his back.

* * *

What will become of your plans now I wonder? You had so many. Each filled with more promise than the last. Now that it has all come to ruin I wonder what you will do with these last moments.

Show me.

* * *

Dragging pathetic morsels of air inside his wracked lungs, Campbell felt a weight push down on his chest. A weight centered on his breast pocket.

_The Book!_

* * *

Ah, but of course. If your schemes for the future are to turn to ashes, then you must protect the designs you have already made on this world. How very…

Predictable.

But Curnow can be of no help to you now. Understanding has begun to dawn on the Guard Captain, and he backs away from you even as you attempt to impart your final instructions.

He knows.

He flees.

He is gone.

You will have to try harder.

* * *

The carpet gives his hands plenty of purchase for the task. He grits his teeth against a slow tightening of his chest that demands more air. His eyes locked with terrible purpose on the prize. The fireside.

The flames roar and crackle with mad laughter at the sight of the High Overseer groveling before it, throwing long, dark shadows about the room in it's glee.

Every arm length is a battle to stay conscious. Every foot a test of his will.

But tenacity, had always run thick in Campbell's blood. And he would _not _be denied now. And though the final inches almost killed him outright, Campbell grinned at the waves of burning heat that buffeted his face. He had succeeded.

Rolling onto his side the High Overseer fumbled at the lining of his official robes, practically tearing forth the precious Black Book.

* * *

In a mere instant, your little Black Book will be nothing more than one final offering to the pyre. Your enemies will never decipher its secrets. Your legacy will be assured. You need only stretch out, and push it through the grate.

You long for it.

You reach for it.

Had only the shadow by your side, truly been nothing more than a shadow, and not say…

An assassin.

* * *

Pain lanced through Campbell's entire being and a tortured scream was rent forth. His hand, laid out in front of him, was pinned to the floor by a very thin, and very sharp, blade.

Ignoring the cries of suffering, the assassin crouched down and plucked the book from his captive's outstretched fingers. Only then was the blade removed.

Clutching injured hand to his chest Campbell turned onto his back. Gasping for pieces of air that seemed to be escaping him. It allowed him, to look directly into the face of his killer.

A mask of twisted metal greeted his eyes. Crouched over him in the firelight its golden sheen gave the image of some kind of demented god. But he felt no fear. No, he would not give them the satisfaction.

"You think… you think this changes anything?" Campbell spat between clenched teeth. The assassin simply stared. "Even in death I… am a martyr for my cause! My achievements… will be heralded… throughout the ages!" The mask tilted almost imperceptibly as the man behind it gazed into the fire. Darkness began to claw at the edges of Campbell's vision.

"I… am the High Overseer of Dunwall… and I… have no fear… for the end you have wrought upon me." His final words were barely a whisper, the only acknowledgement that they'd even been heard was the assassins gaze shifting back to meet his own.

Still, the man behind the mask did not speak. They simply raised their arm to show what they had retrieved from the fire. Campbell's face drained of all its remaining colour.

_No…_

But the Heretic Brand's design was unmistakable. The assassin gestured to it graciously.

_No._

They stood, taking the hilt in both hands and raising it high.

_NO!_

* * *

The last thing Thaddeus Campbell would ever see: the white-hot glow of the Heretic Brand. The last thing he would ever feel: the searing agony as its mark was infused upon his flesh.

My Mark.

The Mark of the Outsider.

How very fitting.

* * *

**AUTHORS NOTE: Thank you everyone for your reviews, follows and favorites. A special thanks to Serendipity's Tears who's enthusiasm inspired me to finish this chapter.**

**There's not a whole lot of talking in this chapter. This was in part, to avoid recycling in-game dialogue, which is one of my pet hates in fanfiction. That and, at this point, Corvo hasn't got a whole lot to say. That will come later.**

**I have decided to use the Outsider's Mark as the Heretic Brand. To me it makes sense. Let me know what you all think.**


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